


Sous-Chef

by wormsin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Cooking, M/M, Not Beta Read, Sex, only 1 angst, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 12:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormsin/pseuds/wormsin
Summary: In which Will knows how to cook, and Hannibal can’t handle it.





	Sous-Chef

**Author's Note:**

> hi! it's been a minute but I'm not gone forever! my chronically-ill ass has been overworked and finding time to write has been impossible. I really miss engaging more with AO3 and the fannibal family, and hope to have more writing time in the future.
> 
> I'm not done with my multi-chaptered works, and they will be finished *eventually*. this one-shot is helping me get back into my stride. 
> 
> thanks for reading, and your patience with other works. any comments are appreciated <3
> 
> -worm

It starts with imam bayildi with lamb and tzatziki. It’s the first time he’s successfully tempted Will to dine at his table, though it’s not the first time he’s had the delight of his company in the kitchen. Leaning against the counter with a glass of wine, Will asks if he can help, so Hannibal sets him up with a cutting board and onion.

“Chop it finely, please,” Hannibal says, then turns to the other ingredients.

He hears the clunk of the knife bisecting the onion, then nothing—but when he glances over Will has already sliced the onion finely one way. He cups one hand around it to keep the form and cuts parallel to the board, then perpendicular, and it falls apart into finely minced pieces. 

Hannibal blinks and returns to his own tasks, but his eyes drift to Will as he goes on to chop parsley and crush garlic. Will’s hands are sure on the blade, rough hands from working on engines, strong and capable. Hands that Hannibal has seen trembling and splattered with blood. 

Will clearly knows what he’s doing, and though Hannibal hides his surprise, Will’s eyes are keen. He doesn’t say anything, but smirks knowingly into his wine glass.

—

Then there’s the Thai steak, and Will strips the seeds from delicate, hot peppers and slices them thinly. Another night, Will brings freshly caught fish, and Hannibal is not surprised that Will knows how to clean them, but it’s entirely different to watch the quick, brutal gutting and scaling. Will knows how to make a few mean drinks too, and Hannibal is more than happy to let him take over his seldom-used liquor cabinet.

Sashimi is a test, and no, Will doesn’t entirely know what he’s doing but learns quickly from Hannibal’s fine slices. But Will can whip up a meringue without a recipe, and chuckles when Hannibal asks if he could make a roux.

“Are you sure you trust me with that?” he asks with a hint of a drawal.

—

“I didn’t realize you were interested in cooking,” Hannibal says, breaching what had previously been unspoken.

Will smirks into his digestif. “I had to learn. And I worked in a kitchen for a few years, after I left the force.”

“Your kitchen seems rather neglected.”

“I cook the dogs’ food, mostly. Don’t have time for anything fancy for myself,” Will explains. He is slouched in an armchair by the fire, legs spread almost indecently, entirely at home.

“Except with me,” Hannibal says, sated and warm.

Will’s eyes go bright and sharp, like he knows just how badly Hannibal wants to keep him. “Except with you.”

—

(And none of this is to mention what a pleasure it is to watch Will consume. Dinner is theater, and Will is now his favorite show. He’s remarkably sensitive, and sensual, absorbing his environment. He eats with Hannibal’s pace and consideration, like moving through honey. The sounds he makes, the pinch of his brow, the bob of his throat; how he demures under Hannibal’s attention and then snaps like a firecracker; the lengthy eye contact they make across the table, chewing on human flesh that Hannibal killed for him.

For his Will.

Their dinners are becoming obscene, without anything untoward. Hannibal loves these delicate games. He hasn’t had someone to play with, like this, in quite a while.)

—

“I should cook for you sometime,” Will says, so shyly that Hannibal wants to throw him in his cellar and cut him to pieces. 

“That would be lovely,” he replies mildly.

—

This is the first time he’s really been a guest at Will’s house. Outside, the cold is biting and dry, but with the fire going and the presence of Will’s pack, his home is warm and inviting. The dogs nose around Hannibal curiously, but with a short whistle from Will they give him bearth, except for a small white mutt with crooked teeth who trails by Hannibal’s ankles. 

“If Zoe’s bothering you—” Will begins, but Hannibal holds up a hand. 

“As long as there’s no jumping,” he says, more to Zoe. He hands Will the wine he brought, and Will doesn’t bother looking at the label. “Mind if I hang my coat?”

“Please. Make yourself at home, then would you pour for us?”

Will returns to the kitchen, back to a large pot on his clunky stove. The spices, onion and garlic are well cooked already, and the house is filled with a lingering smokey flavor. Hannibal can see the ends of celery, and chopped cilantro. “Gumbo?” he guesses as Will sets two glasses and the bottle opener on the small counter. 

“Yeah. I had to make do without a smoker, or sausage casings.” His eyes are flitting, still shy, and gets right back to work, throwing a kitchen towel over his shoulder. Hannibal catches sight of the damp sweat in his hairline, and the back of his neck—Hannibal’s a little flushed too. 

“You don’t have an electric mixer?” Hannibal asks, aghast. Now that he knows Will to be a proficient cook, the state of his kitchen is appalling. There is a food processor, tucked aside by the fridge, which Will must usually use for the dogs. But you can easily get sausage attachments on standard mixers. 

Then: “You made your own sausages?”

“Well, they’re not sausages now,” Will huffs. “Andouille. Not the recipe you might know, though.”

Will has been prepping for a day, at least. Cooking for hours. No wonder the smell is seeped in the house. And Hannibal suddenly feels uneasy. 

Of course, it’s just part of their game. Will has been bluffing and modest, lowering Hannibal’s expectations so he’ll be caught unbalanced, the way Hannibal always seeks to unbalance his dinner guests. Always keep them on their toes, and they’re so much easier to push and prod.

(Or else Will is trying earnestly to impress him.)

“Can I be of assistance?” Hannibal offers. Will doesn’t seem to have noticed Hannibal’s moment of trepidation. 

“Not sure I can handle your judgement as sous-chef,” Will says dryly, stirring the pot. “There’s not much left to do—unless you’d like to set the table. I think I have something acceptable in the nearest drawer to your left.”

Hannibal accepts his task. He and Will meet at the counter occasionally to sip wine, and Hannibal learns that Will first started cooking at the knees of one of his neighbors in a small swamp-town, and that his dad didn’t cook much besides grilling and frying fish so Will took care of the rest, even if it was microwave dinners or rice and beans on a camp stove. And Will is embarrassed by some of that, so Hannibal confesses that he has five pounds of dried sardines in his pantry, just in case.

Then Will is ushering him to sit down, and Hannibal feels full already with affection for him. Which is dangerous, because he wants to let Will in, wants to play bigger games with him. 

Will sets a modest bowl of gumbo before Hannibal and a bowl of rice. It’s dark red, thick and filled with shrimp and meat and vegetables. Hannibal sticks his nose out to get a whiff of the steam and his mouth starts to water. 

“Bon appetit,” Will says, and picks up his spoon. But he’s watching Hannibal avidly as he takes his first bite. 

Food makes Hannibal emotional. It always has. Beyond the traumatic associations, his pallet is so sensitive that flavors become a full-bodied experience. And there is so much flavor in his first bite, spice at first, and then a warm tang, transforming again with a touch of bitter and sweet. The heat lingers in his mouth and throat, and he knows it will grow over the meal. He tries the andouline chunk next and has to close his eyes as he chews.

There’s so much flavor it should be overwhelming, but there’s balance and restraint as much as there is indulgence. He opens his eyes, and the words get stuck in his throat. Will is looking at him on a knife’s edge, wanting so badly to please and also ready to retreat.

Hannibal has to look down. “This is delicious, Will.” He hopes the other man can hear it in his voice. How much this means to him. How good it is. Hannibal is falling to pieces, because that look on Will’s face is so much like a little girl from long ago, sharing her plum. _ Is it good, Hanni? _

They eat mostly in silence, the food is so absorbing. Will glows with pride, and after a few glasses of wine he has a bit of swagger.

“I hope I didn’t make it too hot for you,” Will smirks. “With your delicate palate.”

“I hope you didn’t hold back on my account.”

“Not enough, apparently. You’re looking a little flush.” So is Will, down to his neck (perhaps further). The spice is firey and good, but yes, Hannibal is making more use of his rice than Will is.

“Someday I hope you’ll allow me the full experience.”

“Sweat out the pain.”

“It's merely another sensation. I prefer my heat to not overwhelm other flavors.”

“There has to be a balance,” Will agrees. 

Hannibal insists on clearing the dishes while Will polishes off the last of the wine. When Hannibal returns, Will is making them drinks. Their fingers brush when Will hands the tumbler over, his eyes dark, and Hannibal doesn’t move out of Will’s space. They watch each other drink, an Old Fashioned with cranberry. It’s too strong and a generous pour—maybe Will needs some liquid courage. Maybe he’s looking to get wrecked. 

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. Will isn’t quite trapped between the dining table and the liquor shelf, he could step back but doesn’t. They’re close enough to nearly touch when bringing up their drinks. “it's an honor to eat at your table.”

“It’s been a while,” Will says, words thick and sharp.

“For me as well,” Hannibal says quietly. 

Will’s brow raises, not so shy anymore. “How about some fresh air? The dogs need out.” Will turns, luring Hannibal to the back door. He follows of course. 

The cool air is a sharp contrast to all the heat from inside. Will leans his elbows on the bannister, half bent over to face the dark, his back an elegant line. Hannibal stands close enough to brush arms and watches the dogs scamper off in the night. Their silence is companionable, but not without conversation—Will leans against him and away, swaying; Hannibal rests his hand near Will’s wrist; somehow the barest of touches are electric. 

“You don’t let others cook for you,” Will says, inviting more innuendo.

“Not unless I’m exploring, and even then, not without a trusted recommendation,” Hannibal answers. “It’s a vulnerable position, sitting at another’s table.”

Will snorts lightly. “I would say so. You put sharp edges next to all the temptations.”

Hannibal feels pulled by the barb nestled in iridescent feathers. His voice goes low, confessional, “Do I make you feel vulnerable?”

Will straightens and downs the rest of his drink, throat bobbing. “Haven’t stayed away, have I?”

“Can I get you another?” Hannibal asks, helpless. 

Will lets him take his glass, but when Hannibal is holding both Will slides his fingers up his wrist, under the cuff of his shift. Hannibal is too heavy with want. Will’s lips are parted. He steps right up against Hannibal and kisses him. 

Will tastes of hot pepper and fruit and flesh. The touch, the scents, spark electric under Hannibal’s skin. They’re indulgent and almost lazy, lips pressing together for lingering moments, moving together like breathing, like dancing. Will keeps his hands on Hannibal’s wrists so all he can do is take it as Will leans him against the balcony and licks into his mouth, like oil on heat. Will opens up with a groan when Hannibal pushes his tongue back, tasting all the deep, hidden flavors there. 

“No idea, how long I’ve been wanting this,” Will murmurs, rocking against Hannibal.

“Will,” Hannibal sighs, nosing his cheek. “Let me touch you.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’ve got you right where I want you.” Will kisses him hard, biting his lip, and Hannibal shudders. But he lets go of Hannibal’s wrists and steps back, eyes raking up and down his body.

Hannibal sets the drinks on a chair. Will has backed up against the wall of the house, hips canted out, looking devastating. Hannibal cages him in, utterly ensnared, and grips his flanks firmly. They just kiss for a while and Hannibal becomes obsessed with the noises and twitches that escape from Will, that Hannibal can coax with lips and tongue. Will’s so sensitive and it’s maddenly arousing—just his reactions and taste have Hannibal achingly hard.

And those hands: flitting and frantic over Hannibal’s shoulders, then firm at his nape, gripping and sure. Will finds the warmth beneath Hannibal’s suit jacket and the sweat at the dip of his spine, and pulls them together. 

“Fuck,” Will groans as their erections press into each other, and drops his head against the wall. Hannibal is overwhelmed with it too, but the stretch of Will’s neck can’t be ignored, so he licks a broad stripe from base to ear. Will sags against him with a surprised, “oh” and Hannibal kisses and mouths behind his ear, tender skin with blood pumping just beneath, the corded muscles that hold so much tension. 

And Hannibal finally gives into the temptation to really touch: teasing up and down his body, and finding sensitive spots to press, like the band of his waist, bones of his wrist, and just beneath his ass. Hannibal wants to destroy him. Wind him up to desperation and not give him relief, push him so far he cries or snaps to violence. Hannibal is greedy for him.

Will pulls Hannibal back into a kiss and slows it down. Hannibal takes a deep breath and reigns his control in, and their touches get tender. “You feel really good,” Will mutters, eyes dark and shining. He bites his lip, then chuckles (devastating). “It’s been a while.”

“Of course. We needn’t do more.”

“No I—I appreciate that, but I want to.” Wil pushes his nails through Hannibal’s hair and down his neck, to the confines of his collar and tie. “I want to make you feel good.”

“You do.”

“Tell me what you want.”

Hannibal hums, and noses along his jaw. “Many things.”

He feels a tug, as Will has his tie in a fist. “Let’s start with one thing.”

Hannibal touches Will’s knuckles, and brings his hand up to kiss. He can see this night going in many directions—but these hands. Hannibal watches for Will’s reaction when he says, “I want your fingers inside me.”

He’s not disappointed. “Fuck,” Will growls, mouth dropping open. “Jesus, _ yes. _” Hannibal kisses him sweetly and heads inside; and if his hips sway a little, well, he does love to put on a show. 

Will calls in the dogs and gets them settled as Hannibal goes to the bed. It’s a bit strange, sleeping out in the open like this, but the bed is made and clean and Will’s dogs seem well enough behaved to not jump up and disturb them. Hannibal feels Will’s eyes on him as he undresses, taking his time to fold the garments and let Will look. When he’s fully naked, he crawls onto the bed and makes his back a tempting curve, eyeing Will over his shoulder.

Will makes an appreciative noise, and there’s a tremble to his jaw as he strips to his underclothes and crawls in. “God, Hannibal.” He says his name like a curse, palming his thighs and ass and up his back. Hannibal sighs at the rough skin on skin. Will guides him onto his back to kiss him again, bold and sucking and wet. 

“You’re still hard to read,” Will says. He hooks Hannibal’s leg up over his hip and palms his ass.

“I haven’t made myself clear?” Hannibal teases.

Will digs in his nails, and Hannibal takes a sharp breath. When Will rubs two fingers over his hole, they both moan. “You’re always so put together. Don’t hold back with me.” 

Hannibal nods, and tangles his hands in Will’s hair. “You feel exquisite, Will.” His knuckles trail down, and he cups Hannibal’s balls. Hannibal endeavours to let go and be more vocal, instead of holding his reactions close to his chest, but it’s Will who is panting and groaning when he slicks up and presses his finger in. Will dips gently and rubs firmly and kisses moans into Hannibal’s mouth, until his body is swallowing Will in. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” Will hisses, and Hannibal feels a spark of satisfaction. He squeezes down hard and Will cries out. 

In retaliation, Will thrusts in hard. He pushes Hannibal’s thighs apart and sits back, staring down in flushed concentration. A little more lube and another finger, and Hannibal starts to melt. “Oh Will, yes, that’s perfect.” His prostate is swelling up so Will can really feel it, and Hannibal is filling up with heat. 

“Oh god, oh god.” Will is shaking, overstimulated and divine. He looks like he’s the one getting fucked, as he pumps his fingers in and out. Like he’s falling apart from his. Front of his boxers tented and wet. Expression blissed and pained. 

“Just like that,” Hannibal manages to say, running his hands down himself indulgently. And it’s so good. He’s hit a plateau of pleasure just before orgasm and wants to live in this feeling forever. He can’t keep Will’s name out of his mouth and it sounds obscene. 

“I think,” Hannibal pants, “If you kiss me, I’ll come.”

“Fuck, Hannibal—” Will leans over him and rubs inside him and kisses him hard. His taste, inside, Will inside of him. Hannibal sucks on his tongue and Will whimpers and that’s it—he drops open and out of his skin with the rush of orgasm, slow and long and perfect.

Will strokes him gently until Hannibal is shaking as much as he is. Hannibal can’t think, just watches as Will pushes his boxers down and tugs himself quickly, coming with a shout over Hannibal’s cock. 

Incredible, darling boy.

“Oh my god.” Will collapses next to Hannibal, an arm slung around him. Hannibal holds him as close as he can while minding the mess, pressing kisses to his brow. They breathe for a while, and come down, and the shaking subsides. Will tugs off his shirt and offers it to Hannibal, who uses it to clean up, then pulls them skin to skin.

“Thank you for dinner, Will,” Hannibal says into the silence. 

Will snorts in amusement. “Didn’t let you down, huh?”

“Never,” Hannibal says, perhaps too earnestly. “I would be honored to feast with you again.”

Will meets his eyes, searching. Hannibal is exposed like this, he knows. It’s a dangerous game, to let Will in, and show him what Hannibal wants. 

But Hannibal has never been good at resisting temptation.

“Your place, next time?” Will asks.

“I’d be honored,” Hannibal answers.


End file.
